


exquisitely painful

by dottie_wan_kenobi, Madara_Nycteris



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Artist Steve Rogers, Based On The Myth of Galatea, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Demigods, Demisexual Steve Rogers, F/F, F/M, God Bucky Barnes, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Human Bucky Barnes, I think it makes sense, Light Angst, M/M, Male Friendship, POV Steve Rogers, Pagan Gods, bucky lost his ARM, the gods are patrons to the people of earth, there's some world building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-10 00:48:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14726808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dottie_wan_kenobi/pseuds/dottie_wan_kenobi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madara_Nycteris/pseuds/Madara_Nycteris
Summary: Based on the myth of Pygmalion and Galatea.She reaches out and caresses his cheek. “You’re a good one, Steve. That’s why I’ve brought you here.” His brows furrow but he doesn’t interrupt as she moves and sweeps an arm in the direction of the man. “This is James. He doesn’t yet live, but he will one day soon. And you, my dear, you will be the one to make him.”“What?” Aphrodite wants him to, to what? Give him life? Steve can barely take care of himself, much less create life and possibly take care of it for any amount of time.She regards him with the air of a queen, of a goddess. “Consider this a mission, Steven Rogers. I want you to build me a statue that looks like this man, that is this man down to the smallest details, and then I will reward you. Do you accept?”





	exquisitely painful

**Author's Note:**

> Despite the title, there's very little angst here! It's from this quote by Aphrodite in Rick Riordan's _The Titan's Curse_ , ""Not knowing is half the fun," Aphrodite said, "Exquisitely painful isn't it? Not being sure who you love and who loves you? Oh, you kids! It's so cute I'm going to cry!”"
> 
> Thank you to Cali and Heather for betaing, and also to Cali for alpha-ing lol. Thank you to madara_nycteris for making the amazing art!!!!
> 
> I had a lotta fun writing this! It's my first ever Reverse bang and I kinda overloaded myself fr but I managed to get this one done at least amirite!!

The first thing that comes to Steve is the smell of salt and summer like the ones he spent at Coney Island on the air. It’s pure but not overwhelming, and he can’t help but take a second to enjoy it.

When he opens his eyes, he sees a clear blue sky and picturesque green grass as far as the eye can see. The only thing out of place is a familiar temple on one of the rolling hills. It looks perfect, with its polished white Greek-style columns.

Something tells him, _Go to it. Go to her_ . He takes a step forward, but something feels wrong when he does, and when he looks down, he realizes, _oh. I’m wearing a toga_. It doesn’t seem weird even though the fashion is long past out. He tugs at it so it won’t restrict his walking quite as much.

The walk to the temple takes no time at all. It’s maybe five steps, ten; it’s hard to tell. Steve sees no one in the temple until he’s at the steps. There’s a bench, white marble, and on it sits a man with a loose toga. He has dark hair that goes to his shoulders, chiseled features and a jaw that could cut glass. His chest is mostly on display, only covered by a swath of silky cloth. He only has one arm. When Steve steps up, he looks over. They stare at each other for a long moment, and Steve thinks blearily that he can hear his heartbeat echoing on the hills.

The man licks his bottom lip, and looks over to the other person in the temple.

It’s a woman, a tall and illustrious one -- Aphrodite. She’s a vision, long blonde hair in seemingly natural curls falling down her back. She wears a toga like Steve and the man do, but it drapes on her differently. Steve’s artistic eye notes that figure is that classic hourglass shape, and her features are classically Greek. She’s looking out on the hills, but when the man looks at her, she turns and faces him.

The man and Aphrodite talk, mouths moving, but Steve doesn’t hear anything. They both look at him and then away, and then finally Aphrodite turns to Steve. The man watches, not having moved from his lounge on the large bench, while Aphrodite approaches Steve.

“Hello darling,” she greets. Her voice is very clear despite it being a dream. “It’s nice to see you. I’ve been meaning to thank you for that delicious pastry you sacrificed for me not too long ago. What was it?”

Steve blinks, trying to recall. “Snickerdoodles?”

“Ah, yes, snickerdoodles! I will have to ask for more from my other patronages. And art, as well.” She smiles at him, perfectly straight and white teeth shining. “Yours is so beautiful, especially when you depict me.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, a little stunned. Usually when he goes to pray or sacrifice food at her temples, there’s no interaction. Still, she is his patron and he has spoken to her before. He should be better at this, really, but his awkwardness makes it impossible. “Thank you, my goddess,” he adds for good measure.

She reaches out and caresses his cheek. “You’re a good one, Steve. That’s why I’ve brought you here.” His brows furrow but he doesn’t interrupt as she moves and sweeps an arm in the direction of the man. “This is James. He doesn’t yet live, but he will one day soon. And you, my dear, you will be the one to make him.”

“What?” Aphrodite wants him to, to _what_? Give him life? Steve can barely take care of himself, much less create life and possibly take care of it for any amount of time.

She regards him with the air of a queen, of a _goddess_. “Consider this a mission, Steven Rogers. I want you to build me a statue that looks like this man, that is this man down to the smallest details, and then I will reward you. Do you accept?”

“Do I -- can I have some time to think about it?”

She sighs, muted. “There is not much time, unfortunately. James can only stay here with me for so long before Ares and others become suspicious. I can give you a few moments now, but that is all.”

Steve nods, rubbing at his eyes. He presses in like he always does, but there’s no pain. Damn it, the pain usually helps him focus.

He spends a few moments trying to think of his options, but all he can think is that he’s wasting time thinking about nothing. But really, what can he say to his goddess other than,

“Okay, okay. I accept.”

Aphrodite smiles at him and it’s like the sun.

  
  


At three am, Steve’s eyes blink open. For a long second, he thinks about nothing, just relishes in the feeling of being awake. For a long moment, he just blinks.

Then he remembers his dream.

He throws back the sheets and jumps out of bed, scrambling for his studio. He has to get James’ face down, out of his head before he forgets. It’s ingrained in his brain, but the image of specifically what he wants to draw isn’t. He could do it from any angle; James had given him a lot to work with, just having sat there.

The studio is dark, but he knows his way around well. The lamp gets turned on, casting weird shadows, but all that matters is the sketchpad lying nearby. It’s open on a half-done portrait of T’Challa that he really should finish soon, but...not tonight (this morning? It feels like morning).

He flips it to a new page, not bothering to sharpen his pencil before starting to sketch the outline of the man’s face.

When Sam knocks at the door of the studio at seven for their run, Steve’s still working on it. Every line feels incomplete, like he could do more with it, make it _better_. James’ eyebrows are particularly hard to get right, and Steve erases and redoes them at least five times. It’s frustrating to say the least.

“Whatcha working on now?” Sam asks, sipping from a mug Steve knows is filled with orange juice. “And how long have you been working on it?”

Steve looks up from where he’s working on James’ nose. He stretches out his neck with a sigh. “A mission from Aphrodite. She came to me in my dream last night.”

“Oh yeah? What kind of dream was it?” Sam waggles his eyebrows suggestively, bursting into laughter at the same time as Steve does.

“No! No, no, Sam, it wasn’t like that!” Steve chuckles. He shakes his head. “She was in a temple, and we just stood there while she gave me the mission.”

“Which is?”

“I gotta make a statue of the guy she was with.”

Sam steps further into the room, taking another sip from his mug. He sits on the only other chair Steve has in the room, knees apart but ankles crossed. “That makes no sense. Who was he? Another of the Big Ones?”

Steve sets the sketchbook down, turns to face Sam. Leaning back in his seat, he sighs. “No. His name is James.”

“James.”

“Yeah.”

“Isn’t that, like, a Latin name?”

Steve shrugs. “Probably.”

“Also, what could he be the god of? That’s such a...normal name, it’s weird. Shouldn’t it be something like Hephaestus?” Sam sips again and ponders. “What’d he look like? Any Hera-related disabilities?”

Steve’s cheeks heat up on their own accord, thoughts returning to James. It’s really no wonder that Aphrodite is surrounded by beautiful people. “No, none of those. He was -- “

“I know that look. He was super hot, wasn’t he?”

Steve swallows and turns back to the sketchbook. _Sam should see_ , he thinks, and picks it up. He doesn’t hand it over to Sam and his orange juice, but he shows it to him. Sam looks at it for a long moment, eyebrows raising.

“Dude. And you’re supposed to make a statue of him? How long do you have?”

“I didn’t ask, but she said something about a tight schedule. Oh my god, I have to get started right away.” Steve jumps to his feet, intending to find a place to put a pedestal -- a Greek column -- but Sam stops him.

He’s on his feet, too, mug on the table, when Sam says, “Woah, woah, hold up. You can’t do anything today, Steve -- you don’t have the clay or anywhere to put it yet -- so why don’t we go eat some breakfast and then you can order some clay?”

Steve sighs, rubs at his eyes. Sam’s right, of course he is, and with his words, the burst of energy and panic rush back out of him. “Alright. Do you wanna go out to eat? My treat.”

Sam chuckles under his breath. “Actually, T’Challa invited us out like three days ago. I told you about it, but I guess you forgot?” He quirks an eyebrow, smirking. They both know how forgetful Steve is. “Go on and get dressed, we’re gonna be late.”

With that, Sam sweeps out of the art room, laughing as Steve calls, “Hey, you aren’t dressed either!”

  
  


T’Challa is one of Hera’s most renowned patronages. She claimed him at birth, an unusual event, and it was declared to the world that he would forever be protected by her. Twenty-nine years later, he owns his own corporation, Wakanda Inc. Wakanda Inc has buildings up all over America and in ten African countries that provide safe havens to young black children. Both he and his company are amazing. Sam knows this well, since they’ve been together for several months.

T’Challa is a busy man but he still finds time to hang out with Sam and his friends, like this breakfast. It’s a fancy place Steve isn’t able to comfortably afford, and the food, they find out quickly, is delicious.

Sam and T’Challa make sure he doesn’t feel like a third wheel by including him in their conversation, but they keep sharing smiles that are, frankly, adorable.

When Sam excuses himself to the restroom, Steve expects he and T’Challa will continue talking about poverty in America, but instead T’Challa wipes his mouth with his napkin and smoothes the smile off his face.

“Steve,” he starts, and Steve composes himself at the serious tone, “I understand you’re Sam’s best friend and roommate.”

“Yes,” Steve says, maybe too formal. T’Challa just inspires others to be better, though, and Steve is no exception.

“I’m going to ask him to move in with me soon. Do you think he’ll say yes?”

Steve doesn’t really want to lose Sam, but he understands that Sam and T’Challa are serious. Also not demisexual, and he’s hoping never to hear Sam moan like that ever again. He thinks on it for a long moment, and tells T’Challa, “Yeah, I think so.”

  


 

Sam and T’Challa go back to T’Challa’s place after breakfast, while Steve goes home and orders marble on Amazon. It turns out clay won’t quite work, or rather, Steve wants to be as authentic as possible and clay isn’t that. Marble is, though. His search of Amazon reveals that you can buy all sorts of marble _s_ , plural.

He Googles, “where can i buy marble”. All signs point to Home Depot.

He takes an Uber, because he lives in New York City and has no need for a car. Also he can’t afford one but that’s not unusual. When he gets there, it’s to find that marble is way, _way_ too expensive considering how many statues are made yearly. He grumbles to himself as he loads it in his cart, enough to make a statue as tall as James is. He has lots of tools for sculpting and details already, but he buys more just in case.

On the Uber ride back to his and Sam’s place, Sam calls. Steve picks up with an apologetic look to his driver.

“Sam? What’s up?”

“T’Challa asked me to move in with him,” Sam says, and the excitement Steve expected is...not there.

“Are we happy about that?” He asks, lumping himself in like they always do.

“No!” Sam bursts. “I told him I want to go slow, and he’s been great about it, but now he wants to move in and I can’t, okay Steve, I can’t. I’m not ready.”

“Okay, Sam, okay, you don’t have to be ready. Just tell him that, and he won’t press it.”

Sam groans. “I can’t tonight. I’m on my way home. I just said no and left. Oh god, he’s gonna think I’m mad at him.”

Steve spends the rest of the ride home comforting Sam and feeling bad for getting T’Challa’s hopes up. Their Ubers arrive at the same time, and Sam thankfully helps bring up the ridiculously heavy marble. It gets set just inside the door to Steve’s art room, and then they settle on the couch for the night. Ancient Aliens is thrown on, their favorite guilty pleasure show they insist they only watch “‘cause it’s on”, and their individual tubs of ice cream are decimated.

  


 

Steve wakes up standing at the steps of the pavillion. It hasn’t changed, and neither have the surroundings. The rolling hills, the cloudless sky, the smell of the ocean, they’re all the same.

What’s different is James.

He’s no longer sitting on the bench, staring off into the distance. Instead he’s standing, facing Steve, completely naked.

Aesthetically, he’s beautiful. To say he’s grateful to Aphrodite to be given this mission is an understatement. James is literally a vision, and Steve can’t stop his mouth dropping open.

James’ hair is braided around his hair, an updo that Steve has always loved. His shoulders are broad, his one arm thick in all the right places. Muscles show themselves easily in his chest, which is thick as well, and very symmetrical. His groin is well-proportioned with the rest of him. His thighs aren’t as big as Steve’s but still thick, his body tapering from the waist down. His calves are round but small; his hand has a nice-sized palm and long, thin fingers; his feet are a  decent size. _Oh yes_ , Steve thinks, giving him an up-down that might make his cheeks blush in real life, _he’s beautiful_.

The urge to sculpt hits Steve hard, but he knows that’s not why he’s here. There’s a different reason, one Steve thinks he might know. Aphrodite isn’t here, just James, and James is naked.

Some part of Steve’s brain tells him what non-demisexual people would take this as, what they would do. It’s a small part, one he doesn’t care to listen to. The rest of his brain, much louder, tells him he should get the fine details memorized. As if that’s possible.

“James,” he says, not realizing how long he’s just stared at the guy, “Hey.”

James speaks, but again, Steve can’t hear him.

“I can’t hear you.”

Frowning, James appears to sigh, chest heaving with it. He shakes his head and says something else.

 _Okay_ , Steve thinks. _Aphrodite’s not gonna let us talk._ They can deal with that, can’t they?

He steps into the pavillion, keeps distance between them. He doesn’t want to be too close to James right now. “Uh, how about this. If you can hear and understand me, nod.”

James nods, a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth -- red lips, the top one just a bit thinner than the bottom one.

Steve smiles, too, happier than he could say. “Good, good. Um, do you know what I’m here for?”

James says something, then stops. He nods after a moment, frustration pushing his eyebrows together. It’s...aesthetically pleasing, for sure.

Steve doesn’t both to ask what for. “Is there a way we could talk? Like, somewhere to write something down?”

James looks around, biting his lip. Eventually he shakes his head. With his hand, he mimes holding a pencil and shakes it.

“Draw?” Steve asks.

James nods, then gestures to his face, his fingernails, his toes, and his groin. _The smallest details_ , Steve recalls to himself, blushing.

“Alright,” he says, stepping closer. Now that he looks, there’s parchment and charcoal on the bench. He scoops it up, finding himself way too close to James once he stands up straight again. Steve swallows, meeting James’ eyes. “Can you sit here? So I can get a closer look?”

James’ eyes sweep down from Steve’s to his lips, and back up. The attention feels...weird. James nods and sits, giving Steve a minute to compose himself. _Come on, Steve. Get control of yourself. You can do this._

To James, he asks, “Please, will you smile?”

  
  


Somehow Pietro finds out about Steve’s mission. Steve isn’t really friends with Pietro, just Wanda, but her twin is a nice guy.

 _Except for when he comes over unannounced,_ Steve grumbles to himself, still in the dredges of interrupted REM. Of course the night he doesn’t wake up from his dreams of James, Pietro comes over and wants to talk, wants to have coffee on top of his ADHD, wants to “bond or connect or whatever”.

Pietro takes a seat at the table happily, thanking Steve for his hospitality and the coffee. Steve squeezes in a “no problem” just as Pietro begins to talk about Wanda. Apparently she’s lost all the baby fever (which, by the way, Luis totally and completely _encouraged_ , Pietro says, no heat in his voice) but now wants to adopt the orphan twins in her friends’ class, Tommy and Billy. And Pietro has told her a thousand times, she can’t just adopt kids, are she and Luis even ready, and do they even _know_ her? _Like_ her? Can’t she just wait a while? But no, Pietro sighs and rolls his eyes, she and Luis are talking about it and making plans and blah blah. He’s about to become an uncle and he’s not ready for it. Are they even thinking about him at all here, or just themselves? They’re too young to have kids, anyway -- haven’t they learned their lesson from Scott? From Angie and Peggy? Pietro tells him, “Thank god you don’t have any kids. I couldn’t take it if all our friends were parents.”

Steve scoffs out a laugh, pouring each of them a cup of coffee. “You say that like you hate kids.”

Pietro groans, head falling back. “I don’t. I just...ugh.” He makes a loud noise, half a groan and half a shout. When he lifts his head, his cheeks are red. “I’m not here to talk about kids, you know. I heard about your mission from Aphrodite. Sam told Peggy who told Angie who told Wanda who told me, and I thought, ‘you know, I should go talk to ol’ Steve’, and here I am.”

Steve hands over Pietro’s cup and takes a seat. “Well, it’s nice to see you.”

“You too. We don’t hang out enough! I don’t know why,” and then he talks for several minutes about how they need to spend more time together. It gets tiring after a while, and when Steve finally asks what he came here to say, Pietro clears his throat. “Ah, yes. You know my patron is Apollo, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. Apollo is always asking me for things, songs, poems, odes, et cetera and et cetera. And I wanted to let you know, you have to get it done on time or _shit_ will go _down_.”

He sounds serious, possibly more serious than he has in the entire time Steve has known him, and it makes a zing of anxiety fly through him. “Aphrodite didn’t give me a deadline,” is all he can think to say.

Pietro takes a sip of his drink, a long one, and doesn’t set it down before saying, “Well, trust me, there is one. And you have to know it or you might get smote.” He tilts his head as he says it, looking into his mug like the truth of life is staring back at him.

Steve points out, “No one’s been smote in like, a hundred years.”

Pietro looks up then, meets Steve’s eyes. “You don’t want to be the next one, do you?”

  
  


Smiting is illegal, ever since a representative from each of the seventy-five countries around the world that even partially follow the religion came together and asked their patrons to stop. The gods agreed to, on the basis that they could still punish humans in other (but not worse, ethically or morally) ways. Steve knows this, has studied it in school before, but Pietro’s words have him nervous.

He starts chipping away and sculpting soon after Pietro leaves, just the general shape of James. The pedestal is too tall for Steve to not make use of his step stool, and he uses it without shame.

It feels weird to sculpt the statue in all honesty. Sculpting Aphrodite versus sculpting James is different -- Aphrodite is like a second mother to Steve, while James….. James is _not_. It’s hard to describe the way he feels about James, about the way those feelings grow after each dream. Especially these ones where he’s been naked and Steve has been taking down the most minute details of his person. There’s nothing quite as intimate -- or if there is, Steve doesn’t know it -- as drawing the crevices of someone’s toes while they wiggle in your lap. Steve had laughed, grabbed James’ foot and held it still (gently, of course, he’s not an animal) long enough for him to get what he needed on the page. James had laughed, too, inaudibly but Steve had seen his shoulders shake with mirth, his smile light up the pavillion.

Steve works all night, through Sam coming home, T’Challa in tow, and through the sock being put on the handle of Sam’s room. It’s easy enough to listen to the music they put on and ignore what’s going on. It’s not so easy to ignore the way his stomach flips when he checks his reference sketches, the blush on his cheeks as he shapes the V of James’ hips, his groin.  
  
  


T’Challa leaves after breakfast the next morning, telling them both it’s always a pleasure to visit but his sister, Shuri, will be wondering where he is if he’s too late. He also tells Steve that he’d better ease up on the shopping, then shares a good laugh with Sam about the bags under Steve’s eyes. Steve doesn’t want to laugh, but falls into it, anyway, because it’s funny, and he’d be laughing if it had been directed to someone else.

Sam is happier than he has been since T’Challa asked him to move into his place, and he tells Steve all the details once T’Challa is gone.

They talked it over, and agreed that Sam will stay the night more often, but not completely move in. He’s not ready and T’Challa understands that, respects it, and they’re doing good. “It was just an obstacle on the road,” Sam says to himself in his Peer Specialist Voice.

Steve claps him on the back of the shoulder and tells him, “You guys are meant to be. Zeus-Hera relationships are always strong.”

Sam laughs at that and thanks Steve, pulling him into a hug. They stand around in the kitchen, hugging, for a while. Eventually, Sam says, “You know I gotta force you to sleep now right?”

With a deep inhale, Steve sighs and nods. “I just had coffee,” he protests anyway.

“Too damn bad,” Sam counters, a sort of hard affection in his voice. Steve hugs him tighter and pulls away.

“Can I at least show you the progress I’ve made so far? Or is that just too much? Will I drop dead here and now from lack of sleep if I stay up just a little longer?”

Sam thumps him on the back of his head, and then tells Steve that James is hot, but not hot enough to stay up all night for. “Go the fuck to sleep,” he quotes, laughing.

Steve does, or tries to, and has flickering dreams of James. He thinks maybe James says, “ _Stevie_ ,” his voice carried away by the breeze, but when he wakes up at five in the afternoon, disoriented and feeling worse than he did that morning, he isn’t sure.

  
  
  


His next dream brings him back to Aphrodite’s pavilion, dressed in the toga once again. James is there, also in a toga, balancing on the railing, his one hand managing to keep him steady. He doesn’t fall forward or backward, just stares off into the distance. Steve’s never seen him leave the pavilion. Aphrodite is there, too, and _she_ does leave, flowing down the steps as graceful as anyone Steve has ever seen.

“Steve,” she says, voice urgent. She sweeps over to him, arms reached out; once she’s close enough, she grabs his biceps. It feels weird, being touched by her, like he’s a ragdoll and she could fling him into a forgotten corner and be done with him. It’s weirder to look her in the eye, see desperation and fear there.

“Aphrodite,” he replies, heaving a breath. “What -- ?”

“How close are you to being finished?” She gives him no opportunity to answer before continuing, “Time is running out. I know how you feel for James, and I know you can do this. But you have to do it quickly.”

“What?”

“I told you Ares was after James, but that was a lie. There is something else after him, and the only way to save him is to complete this mission.”

“ _What_?” Steve asks again, utterly and completely confused. He opens his mouth to ask something else, for her to clarify literally anything she’s said, but she gives him a look that shuts him up.

“I cannot go into much detail,” she says irritably. “All I can tell you is that time is running out. Now,” Aphrodite pauses, repositions her hands, “wake up!”

She pushes him, and he can feel the restrained power in --

  
  
  


Steve wakes with a gasp. A look at the clock says it’s just past eight in the morning, not a bad time to wake up, but considering he went to bed at six it’s not good.

With a groan, he gets out of bed, whole body stiff. As he brushes his teeth, he sees there are hand print-shaped bruises on his arms, right where Aphrodite pushed him. They visibly fade away as he gurgles mouthwash. _What the hell_ , he thinks, but doesn’t waste time worrying about it. He’ll ask Aphrodite next time he prays to her.

So begins a three day bender of just working on James’ statue. If Steve thought drawing him was intimate, he’s corrected swiftly. Spending hours on just his hand familiarizes Steve with it, and his dumb brain, hopped up on caffeine, lack of sleep, and Aphrodite’s “I know how you feel for James” line has him thinking things he shouldn’t.

James’ feet prove more difficult, which makes sense. Feet are the bane of most artists, and he’s no exception. The arch is maybe the most difficult -- Steve almost always fucks it up. Something tells him maybe he should sleep and do it when he’s rested -- it sounds a lot like Peggy -- but when has Steve ever listened to reason?

He’s just about to scrape it when someone shouts, “Steven Grant Rogers!”

Steve barely manages not to not fall and hit his head on his desk, but he does make a slash up from the side of the ball to just past the top of the ankle bone. He stares at it for a long moment, shocked.

“Peggy, I told you not to scare him!” Angie -- and yes, that’s Angie, and it was Peggy who full named him -- berates. “Steve? Is it okay?”

There’s nothing he can do about it, because of course it’s already drying. He leans his forehead against James’ thigh, just enough to hide his face and not tip the whole thing over. _Fucking fuck_.

“It’s fine,” he calls even though he feels like he might cry. It takes concentration not to trip down the step stool steps, but he still slips on the last one. Peggy’s hands are on him, then, making sure he’s steady.

“I’m sorry, darling, but Sam says you’ve been chipping away at this for three days. You’ve barely eaten, barely slept…. We’re worried about you.”

Angie and Sam, even Wanda, are there in his studio, all looking at him like he’s about to drop dead. It makes something in him rebel, want to push them out and lock the door, shed their pity and just finish this damn thing. But he knows that’s stupid, knows he can’t fall for it, and submits himself to their worry.

  
  


 

They get take out, a mix of Chinese and Thai from two different places, and make him eat as much as he can before he starts to feel sick.

No one talks about the statue or their patrons. Instead the topic of conversation is Wanda and Luis, and their plans to foster Tommy and Billy.

“Have you talked to the kids at all?” Angie asks, head resting on Peggy’s shoulder.

Wanda swallows her food quickly, washes it down with her water, and nods. “Yes, we have. Our place is getting checked sometime next week, and then we’ll have a few sit down meetings with the boys, and we’ll see how it goes from there.”

Teasingly, Sam says, “Angie, you thinkin’ about adopting or something?”

That leads to several jokes between Angie and Peggy, and then some serious conversation that Steve can barely follow along with. Angie and Peggy already have a son, Howard; Steve barely gathers that they’re thinking about expanding before his eyes slip closed and he falls asleep.

  
  
  


James is beautiful.

Steve finds himself in the pavilion, sitting at James’ feet, staring up at him. His only thought is that James really is beautiful, so much more than Steve has ever allowed himself to acknowledge.

Even back in the toga, most of his body except parts of his chest and lower legs covered, he is just...magnificent. Maybe Steve’s still sleep deprived and loopy from it, maybe not. Either way, he finds himself laying his head on James’ thigh, eyes closed, just enjoying the closeness.

“I want to kiss you,” he says as James runs a hand through his hair.

James taps his shoulder, but Steve doesn’t move. When James pushes at his shoulder, though, he springs his head up, suddenly alert. _Oh Gods, I shouldn’t’ve done that,_ he thinks, feeling ill.

James shakes his head, says something. Steve tries to read his lips, but can only really catch ‘stop’.

Steve scrambles to his feet, backs up until he hits the railing. James jumps up, too, hand up and head shaking some more. He says something that looks distinctly like, ‘Fuck!’, and reaches out for Steve’s hand. Steve is tugged closer, his hand in James’ being brought up by James’ mouth. James whispers something, or at least Steve thinks he whispers -- his mouth barely moves.

Then James looks at him, eyes bright, and says, “Steve, calm down.” His voice is deep, rich, unaccented, nothing like Steve expected but perfect either way.

Steve stares for a long moment. Maybe it’s whole minutes that he stares -- it’s difficult to tell. Eventually, he asks, “How can I hear you?”

“I took the ability to talk from you so I could have it. It’s a trick Aphrodite likes to play sometimes…. Anyway, Steve, listen, darling, stop panicking. I want to kiss you, too. That’s what I was trying to say.”

“Oh,” Steve mumbles. For a second, he lets his anxieties take over. _Fuck that_ , he thinks, shoving them away. He needs to live in this moment, needs to let himself live. It doesn’t matter that this is a dream and he hasn’t been kissed in real life in way too long. He allows himself to smile, and does so widely, not sure if Bucky feels insecurities or not but not willing to risk it. “Why aren’t we, then?”

James shakes his head. “I can’t hear you, Steve. That’s the problem with this…. I can’t change it back. So now if you want to talk, we’ll have to figure it out.”

Steve lets it roll off his shoulders, and says in sign language, ‘What about this?’

“I don’t know what that means.” He looks off to the horizon. “And you can’t write because this is a dream and you can’t read in dreams. Damn it all.”

Using his free hand, Steve taps James’ cheek. Once James is looking at him, he gently pushes as the other man’s lips until they’re barely open. He swipes his thumb on James’ plush bottom lip, and tips his head. Turns out he’s pretty good at non verbal communication.

James sticks out his tongue to catch Steve’s thumb. Electricity jolts through him at once, and he really can’t help himself -- he has to kiss James. He thinks he might die if he doesn’t.

Their lips fit together perfectly, making Steve moan both from it and the rush of feelings it causes. Surely this means they’re meant for each other. Right? He hopes so.

James sticks his tongue in Steve’s mouth, and he thinks he really will die from how good it feels -- but instead, he just wakes up.

  
  
  


Steve wants to say he wastes no time and gets right back to work. But the truth is, he takes a nice, long shower and enjoys being able to make noise again. Sam bangs on the wall and tells him to _shut up, oh my god, you’re disgusting_.

He makes it up by treating Sam to more ice cream, from an actual parlor.

“Don’t think you’re fooling me,” Sam says as he licks at his cone, “‘Cause you’re not. I see right through you. When we get back, you’re gonna lock yourself in with your boy toy statue and go on a bender and when I next see you, you’ll be half dead with a completed statue.”

Steve scoffs, tells him, “You’re wrong. I’m gonna be responsible this time.”

Three days later, every detail is perfect (or as perfect as it’ll get, which considering Steve’s a perfectionist, is pretty damn perfect) and Steve hasn’t eaten anything except a mostly-stale bagel and a packet of ketchup. Don’t ask.

Sam’s waiting for him when he finally leaves, standing in the doorway to the kitchen, tapping his fingers on his nonexistent wristwatch.

“You know, I was just checking the time, and -- this is crazy, man -- it’s been three goddamn days! Didn’t we just have a talk with you about this? I got all the girls over and we Talked Some Sense into you, or tried, because it clearly didn’t work! When was the last time you drank something?” He demands.

“Uh. Yesterday morning.”

“Real person morning or your idea of morning?”

“It was like five-ish?”

“Oh my god! You’re having a Gatorade. You need something that won’t fuck you up.”

Five minutes later, they’re sitting at the table, Steve with his bottle of Gatorade and Sam with a cup of coffee. Steve had asked for some and been told “Fuck no. You’re sleeping as soon as I’m done berating you.”

“Sam?”

“What?”

“I think…. I think I’m in love with James.”

Sam doesn’t ask if he’s sure. Everyone knows that gods are like magnets, pulling in mortals who are receptive and making affection and fondness bloom much faster than between mortals. Not stronger or different, just faster. He also doesn’t ask how he knows -- which Steve really appreciates because he doesn’t want to recount how he broke down at three am just this morning and had to resign himself to losing James forever.

All he says is an emphatic, “ _Shit_ ,” and somehow, that’s all that really needs to be said.

  
  
  


Steve sleeps for ten hours and wakes up with the worst craving for water in his entire life (craving? How tired is he, seriously. ‘Thirsty’ is so much easier to say). He rushes through using the toilet and brushing his teeth, then almost runs to the kitchen. Once there, he drinks two bottles of water in quick succession. They’re cold enough to wake him up more than he already was.

For a long moment, he stands at the counter, not looking at anything, and just breathes. Without exhaustion numbing him, he realizes how much his life has been put on pause for his patroness. It’s sort of ridiculous.... He sighs and rubs at his eyes. It’ll be over soon. Yeah, he’ll be heartbroken and will probably never make another statue again (if he’s being honest), but that’s okay. He won’t be going on these benders anymore.

Steve narrowly avoids waking Sam as he passes by on his way to his studio. He trips over a random shoe and cusses loudly on his way down. He freezes, certain he’s woken Sam, but no noise comes from the room. With a sigh of relief, Steve pushes himself back up and makes it the rest of the way without further incident.

He’s planning on staring at the statue of James until Sam wakes up. They’ll go to the Praying Building and pray to Aphrodite and Zeus respectively, and when they get home, James’ statue will be gone. And that will be that.

But as soon as he opens the door, he finds himself staring at Aphrodite.

His patroness is admiring the statue, eyes lingering on the chest and arm.

“Ma’am,” he stutters, not sure if he should get down on his knees for her or leave. “Uh -- “

“What happened here?” She asks, not looking away from the slash on James’ ankle. “I have half a mind to fix it, but I’d like to know, first.”

“Oh.” He flushes down past his neck. “Someone distracted me, and I slipped. My hand slipped, I mean. You can change it.”

She touches it, gingerly, like she’s scared of her own strength. Or maybe that’s presumptive.  Either way, she says, “No, I don’t think I will.”

He controls his next breath carefully, trying not to show how happy it makes him that wherever this statue goes, it’ll always have something to make him unique, make him Steve’s. A possessive flare flies through him at the thought.

“Hmm.” Aphrodite looks away, to Steve, eyes bright and sharp. He feels seen, cored, like she knows absolutely everything about him and can read his mind. It’s disarming to say the least. Unable to help himself, he takes a step back, all the hair on his body standing on end. She notices with a grin. “Steve.”

“Ma’am,” he says.

“What do you think I’ll be doing with this?” She gestures to James’ statue.

“I -- I have no idea.” He has lots of ideas, truthfully, but they feel so petty and immature in the face of his patroness. She won’t take the statue and keep it as a yard ornament, or keep it in the bedroom, or hide him away from whoever she and James are avoiding. He’s heard of the gods making up fake quests to see how their followers react.

“I told you someone was after him, but I never explained who. Well, let me do so now.” She snaps her fingers, and he finds himself back in her pavillion, sitting on James’ bench. Neither James nor his statue are here. Everything else is as it usually is -- sunny, few clouds, smelling like sea foam -- except that Steve’s not in a toga. It feels weird -- cheap jeans shouldn’t touch marble like this.

Aphrodite looks comfortable, stretched out on her own bench, one with a back to lean into. She looks like the queen she never got to be. Seriously, she meets Steve’s eyes and almost instantly, he feels frozen, like he can’t look away.

“James is my son,” is what she starts with, as nonchalant as he’s ever seen her. “I let him roam, because he isn’t prone to getting into any sort of trouble. On one of his trips around the world, he encountered a terrible enemy -- a group of slighted demigods who call themselves HYDRA. You see, James was once a demigod himself, until I gave him full status. He fought in the second World War -- I couldn’t stand to see him get hurt the way he was. Anyway, HYDRA, they were jealous of his status and the love I’ve given him. They kidnapped him and mutilated him, cutting off his arm. He barely escaped, and has stayed here with me ever since. They’re looking for him, but he can’t be found here. It’s a halfway world -- halfway between Olympus and Earth. Only those I permit are allowed here.” She pauses, “Are you understanding?”

Steve nods. It seems his tongue is frozen, too, because he can’t make a noise of assent come out.

“Good, good. I asked you to build him because no god or demigod can bring harm to a mortal. They will no doubt still attempt to get my James, and I do not wish to make him mortal, but it has to happen. Zeus sees all, and can stop them before they try anything -- but he can only do that if James is mortal. Otherwise, it would be an act of war, and all of Olympus would fall. We don’t want that,” she titters, shaking her head. “Now, I imagine you wondering why you, specifically. I have many followers, as you know. Are you wondering that?”

Steve nods again, trying to absorb all of the information. He’d never heard of rules against harming mortals, though it makes sense. What doesn’t is what it has to do with James’ statue -- it won’t make him mortal.

“James chose you,” she says simply. “I told him about my more artistic patrons, and he chose you. Frankly, darling, I don’t believe he could have picked better.”

A blush creeps into Steve’s cheeks, both at the compliment and the thought of James picking him for such an intimate and important mission. He has no idea what the actual choosing looked like, but he can imagine James seeing his picture and being enamored, telling Aphrodite, ‘ _I want that one to sculpt me.’_

Aphrodite smiles at him indulgently, probably well aware of what he’s thinking. She doesn’t let him stay in his fantasy long, though. With another snap of her fingers, he’s alone in his studio, and James’ statue is not gone.

In fact, it’s, for lack of a better word, _thawing_.

Starting with his hair, which is loose and flowing just past his shoulders, the statue becomes flesh and bone. Steve watches, eyes wide and mouth dropped open, as James comes to life in front of him. _Real real real,_ his brain shouts.

“James,” he breathes out once James’ entire head and neck are no longer marble.

“Steve!” James calls back happily, wiggling his shoulders as much as he can. He manages to sit on the pedestal without falling, his toga becoming real with him and covering all the important bits.

Steve can’t help himself -- he rushes forward, leaning on his tippy toes as James leans down, and they kiss, _finally they kiss!_ , and _oh my god,_ it’s amazing. Perfect. A million other adjectives that fly out of Steve’s brain the second James’ tongue probes at his lips.

* * *

 

FIVE HOURS LATER

So this is James.

Sam honestly expected him to be hotter, but he won’t complain. The hair is a little long for his taste. He’s a little too much like Ariel from _The Little Mermaid_ for Sam to be completely comfortable around him.

To Steve, he asks, “Is he about to brush his hair with a fork?”

“What? No. He knows a lot already. He was a demigod back in the forties,” and isn’t that something. A WW2 vet in the apartment he is this close to moving out of just to get away from Aphrodite and her antics.

“Great,” is all Sam says, attention caught by James again. James is watching TV, having wandered around the whole place already and wondering what it is. Steve turned it on, _Hell’s Kitchen_ reruns playing, and since then, James has been hooked.

“I saw movies all the time,” he tells them, and Sam imagines him dressed up like a thirties beggar, tossing pennies at a cinema worker and going to see _Snow White and The Seven Dwarves_. It’s hard to reconcile that image with this version of him -- he’s not a god (or demigod, or whatever he was) anymore, but he’s certainly got the body of one. Steve did good, he has to admit, except for the scar at James’ ankle. He’s been rubbing at it, completely unaware of the sick look in Steve’s eyes. Steve is Sam’s best friend (other than T’Challa, of course), and he hates to see it.

 _T_ _hat calls for a distraction_ , Sam thinks, steeling himself and blurting out the first thing that comes to mind. “Is James really your name? Like, if you were a demigod I get it, but still...it doesn’t suit you.”

Looking more amused than he should be, James tells them, “My name was James Buchanan Barnes. You’re right, though, I didn’t go by James. There were five in our building alone,” and suddenly Sam finds himself watching James fall into a memory. He shifts on his butt, a little uncomfortable honestly, because this guy is younger than him but is also a lot older. It’s just weird. Then James blinks, looks at Steve, and back at Sam. “I went by Bucky, ‘cause of Buchanan.”

“Bucky,” Steve tries out, and _Bucky’s_ eyes light up. God, that’s gonna be hard to get used to, even though Sam feels like it fits him better. “I like it.”

And shit, Sam knows that tone.

He stands, making Jam-- Bucky flinch backwards minutely. Sam can’t help but wonder what’s up with the guy. “Welp,” Sam says, probably too loud, “I’m gonna go hang out with T’Challa, or Peggy, or somebody. You two...have fun.” Steve and Bucky both flush at this, which really only spurs Sam into adding, “But not too much fun. I’ll know!”

A minute later, shoes on and keys in hand, Sam does leave, hoping T’Challa is home so they can cuddle. Yeah, a cuddle sounds good right about now. The fact that it gives Steve and Bucky some time to themselves is purely a bonus.

Of course, the moment he’s about to text T’Challa, Steve texts first, saying, ‘I’m too awkward idk what to doooo’

‘What are u texting me for,’ Sam replies, ‘All u gotta do is hang out with him. He’s prolly feeling as awkward as you are.’

‘Yeah u right,’ Steve says.

‘Of course I’m right. I’m always right.’

After a moment, he adds, smiling, ‘Now go get ur man Steven’

‘I will,’ is all the response he gets. He imagines Steve’s determined face and can’t help but laugh. _Good luck, pal_ , he thinks, and goes to text T’Challa.

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment I will love you forever


End file.
